


A Final Gift

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Character Death, Established Relationship, Gore, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek conducts a werewolf funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Final Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Er, is sorry good enough? Also, first attempt at writing gore, actually.

They could blame the full moon, they really could. Everyone knows what it does to them, to werewolves, how it turns them and twists them into these feral things with teeth and fur and rage. They could say he lost control, which he could have, did even. They could say it was an accident, comfort him and defend him, and he would let them with tight lips, a steeled jaw.

But, he would always know that it was a lie. There were no accidents here, no false blame or unsure motives.

He hadn’t killed Jackson; he was already dead when he found him. Jackson was on his last wheezing breaths as the wolfsbane spread from the bullet in his shoulder, black muck building in the back of his throat. And, he remembers every second of it, remembers every yowl and whimper and choked gasp that passed Jackson’s lips. He remembers that final gurgle, when he had pierced his fangs into his tender throat and  _pulled_ , tore, in a mess of spasms and red heat. He remembers how eyes rolled white, how the pinpricks of claws disappeared from his own neck, how hands and arms flopped uselessly to the floor.

He remembers the damp, strangled noise that was his name— _Derek_ —most of all. More than the headiness of blood and flesh on his tongue as he continued to bite and chew and  _eat_  as blood crept across charred floorboards, draining Jackson of his color, his warmth. Though he tried his best to avoid the wound, the poison still burned through his body, a constant stream of black ooze dribbling from his mouth and spattering what’s left of Jackson’s skin with every strip of flesh Derek takes in.

This is how wolves grieve; taking in what their loved ones leave them is a final gesture of respect, of love.

He’d drawn back only when the wolfsbane got the best of him, pained tears burning his eyes, streaming down his cheeks as his body contracted, vomiting a thick mixture of that sludge and bile and meat with a wet splat. The spasms eventually tapered and, wiping his lips, he sat back on his haunches, cast a final look on Jackson.

His chest cavity was hollowed, a mess of red blood and pink flesh and white, splintered ribs, like a Thanksgiving turkey after the dinner, stripped and carved of meat for leftover sandwiches with cranberry sauce and stuffing. It was enough. He reached out for Jackson’s half-lidded eyes, so blue he realized then, and gently eased them shut. He ended his mourning by speckling gentle kisses across his face, from pallid forehead to blue-veined eyelids to dead, slack lips.

So, when he meets Scott’s confusion and Stiles’ disgust and his pack’s apprehension and Peter’s delight, when he seems them scrounge and squeeze for some kind of answer that can help them sleep at night, Derek’s content with the taste that stays on the back of his tongue every passing day, the memory of Jackson’s final gift to him.


End file.
